


Sky Kisses Earth

by adarksweetness (chayaasi)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aromantic Dean, Asexual Character, Asexual Michael, Asexual Supernatural Mini Bang 2015-16, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 01:58:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7021069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chayaasi/pseuds/adarksweetness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle against the Darkness prompts the world's shakiest alliance between archangel Michael and Dean Winchester, a.k.a, a winged dick and a hunter who doesn't do chick flick moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Asexual Supernatural Minibang. 
> 
> A huge thank you to the mods for running this thing like pros, and to my artist @emmatheslayer for their [A+ art](http://emmatheslayer.livejournal.com/364847.html).

**Lebanon, Kansas. One month ago…**

_An emergency meeting of the Men of Letters had been called to order._

_Well, given the circumstances, every meeting centered around some emergency, but this particular one was a double emergency and the bunker was filled to bursting with the five old guys who remained; a coven of witches, two of Crowley’s lieutenants; and the guests of honor themselves._ _It was the first time Dean could remember himself and Sam being invited. It was also the first time a meeting had been called in their life times, but details._

_According to Magnus the Master of Spells (or Cuthbert as it unfortunately said on his birth certificate), there hadn’t been a Winchester at the table since Henry. He also informed them not to get used to it, because the Council had not yet reviewed John Winchester’s case after he married a hunter’s daughter and completely abandoned--_

_The rest of the explanation was unfortunately lost after Dean threatened to punch his balls._

_Opposite them sat a half dozen witches, who looked none too happy to be here. And at the end of the table, given a wide berth and due deference, was Raphael._

_The archangel calmly watched the argument that was already in full swing before Dean and Sam even arrived, about who among them was the weakest link. Ask an angel to pick cannon fodder, the obvious choice was demons. Ask a demon, they smirked toothily and picked mankind. Ask man-kind specifically, however..._

_“The witches, of course!” Magnus oozed. “They’re obviously the most disposable force. They don’t even serve God!"_

_A derisive chorus of women’s voices pushed back, and Dean found himself nodding along. Maybe he wasn’t a fan of Rowena herself, but he sure was a fan of Men of Letters shutting up._

_“Oh, but Magnus, neither do you.” A dirty pair of boots were propped up on the long mahogany table, scattering distressing bits of what was hopefully just red clay on the pristine surface. Lucifer peeked out from behind them, a nasty smile on his vessel’s ruined face. “Not with your kind of extracurricular activities, anyway."_

_Another uproar immediately began. Dean clenched his jaw and turned to Sam. “What is he doing here?"_

_Sam raised a brow. “Uh, he speaks for Hell?”_

_“Crowley speaks for Hell,” Dean sniped back. “Lucifer’s a bum!"_

_“I heard that.” Lucifer declared without even looking up from his ipad._

_“Well, he’s not wrong,” Raphael interjected. “But that’s not what we’re here to discuss."_

_A hush fell over the room when the archangel spoke. Dean had never met one before—at least not one_ _who wasn't fallen, locked up, and then spat back from Hell in time to watch the end of creation. He still didn’t think much of them, though._

_Raphael looked at people like he preferred not to do any such thing, and the spooks behind him weren’t much better. The archangel’s entourage stood behind him like chess pieces, back straight, blades drawn, like nothing in the world would ruffle their feathers._

_That wasn’t totally true. In fact, the whole reason they were here was because their feathers had been pretty roughed up by Amara’s resurgence. When word got out that the primordial chaos itself was gathering her forces, suddenly, every group of creatures that wouldn’t be caught dead with another decided that collaboration was better than actual death and started forming alliances._

_A treaty between the angels and the Men of Letters would have formed the alliance of Heaven and humanity. Or so that had been the intention until it came out that Dean Winchester, legacy Man of Letters and direct descendant of Cain, inherited the birthright of both. He and his brother were vessels for God’s first archangels, but if Dean thought Sam drew the short straw of being the devil’s prom dress, it turned out that stupid birthmark on his own forearm made him a potential knight of the Darkness. Suddenly, everyone and their mother wanted assurances that he wouldn’t hitch his wagon to her death star._

_“Right, we’re here to talk about this,” Dean lay his arm on the table and shoved up his sleeve to reveal the Mark of Cain on the inside of his arm. Despite the weight of everyone’s curious gaze, it really was just a small, wine-colored bruise that nearly disappeared into the crease of his elbow. It didn’t look like something at the center of a cosmic ruckus._

_“But come on, you know our record,” Dean looked around meaningfully. “Saving people, hunting things,_ that’s _our job. I ain’t gonna choose Amara.”_

_“An easy thing to say,” Raphael replied. “But Amara knows you bear the Mark of Cain, and she will not stop until she’s consummated your bond.”_

_“Consummated our bond?” Dean asked incredulously. “What bond? You know I never even met the lady.”_

_“It doesn’t matter,” Raphael shrugged with iron serenity. “Your inheritance is such that the primordial forces of light and darkness have equal claim upon you. Obviously, we prefer you take your place at Michael’s side before_ she _stakes her claim."_

_“Oh my, as his vessel?” Rowena quipped slyly from the Witches’ side of the table._

_“As his consort,” Raphael corrected her. “For even the strongest vessel is ultimately mortal. And corruptible. Dean's place at Michael’s side will protect him from Amara.”_

_Rowena’s lips curved into an astonished and pitying circle. “Ooh, well…” she tittered with fake glee. “What an honor.”_

_For his part, Dean pursed his lips and leaned toward Sam. “That's...a Metallica show, right? Sam, tell me that's a Metallica show.”_

_“Dean, you're thinking of a concert,” Sam whispered back. “This is a marriage proposal.”_

* * *

 

**Heaven**

Honestly, there were so many reasons not to like flying: unnecessarily complications, low score on a totally arbitrary scale of trustiness, and generally full of the heebie jeebies. In Dean's opinion, the trip to Heaven was no better. But he made it, so it was safe to say that the flash of pure white light (still dancing in spots behind his eyelids) was the plane in this shitty metaphor, and this long empty stretch of road was a terminal of some sort. In that case: where was his pick up? 

He tried to recall Castiel's terse instructions, but now that he thought about it, " _Michael will meet you at the edge of Heaven. It’s a very profound honor to be escorted in by the Viceroy, Dean.”_ weren't really instructions at all. Not to mention, for all that, the only thing of note on this landscape besides the funky lilac sky and colorful stars, was Michael’s profound absence.

Dean massaged out a mysterious crick in his neck when he spotted something dark in his peripheral vision: his car. Trust Baby to be there for him in these dark times. She rested on the side of the lane like a panther contented, shiny from a recent detailing and riddled with droplets from a rainshower. She was warm when Dean wrapped his fingers around the familiar curve of her door handle, ready with the keys resting in the ignition. Maybe there was still a ways to go before he came to wherever this edge of Heaven was. After all, everyone had to clear customs. 

The logic sounded legit, and most importantly, aligned exactly with what Dean wanted at the moment. Soon, he was speeding down the gray ribbon road with an intoxicating scent of petrichor coming from outside and warm, worn leather on the inside. Flipping the radio on started the opening chords of Traveling Riverside Blues and if he asked himself _why_ he was driving, his brain came back with a giant load of nothing--no emergencies, nobody bleeding out in the backseat, no crowd of bikers angry at being hustled...

Just him and an open road. If Dean had to describe the feeling, it was like—dare he say it—

“Welcome to Paradise.”

“Dude!” Dean groused as soon as he righted himself from where he veered entirely off the lane. He glared at Michael’s vague yet abrupt reflection in the windshield. “We talked about this—you gotta warn a guy before you show up!”

“Didn’t Castiel inform you that I’d meet you at the edge of Heaven?” Michael asked without looking even mildly sorry. 

Dean rolled his eyes because, well, it was easier than having expectations. Angels were going to be angels, and Michael was accordingly a grade-A winged dick. He was also irritatingly sexy, but Dean considered that fair compensation. It was on top of a very short list of things that made this arrangement suck less, and despite the things it might say about him, if this whole angel mating thing didn’t work out, Dean still kinda hoped they could be friends. Dean Winchester took _very_ good care of his friends. 

“Should I be flattered?” Michael deadpanned and Dean nearly choked.

“Were you in my head?!”

Michael looked utterly unimpressed in the face of his outburst. “Do you really think I had to be?”

“Shut up,” Dean scowled at the archangel, then impatiently tapped his hands on the steering wheel. “And what is this anyway?” he demanded brusquely to change the subject. “Why does Heaven look like a backroad off the interstate?”

“Axis Mundi is a road to the center of Heaven,” replied Michael. “Of course, everyone sees it differently. We’ve escorted souls here through high seas, battlegrounds, parades—your Axis Mundi is a standard two-lane highway, that’s...”

“Boring as fuck?” Dean assessed the landscape again, this time with a glimmer of resentment. It wasn’t entirely facetious, because he’d seen Carnaval on the Travel Channel once and that was the kind of feathery frat party he could get behind.

“I was going to say minimalist.”

Dean snorted. “No, you weren’t.”

Michael’s expression didn’t change, but something rippled off him that felt like a smirk. “Oh, so now you’re in _my_ head?”

“Did I gotta be?” Dean returned wryly.

“Touché,” Michael allowed. “But your Heaven reflects what is meaningful to you. You’ve seen experienced everything here, from this road to the smallest blade of grass.”

“Oh.” Dean glanced sidelong at his companion. Well, if nothing else, that explained Michael rubbernecking out the window like he was the damn tourist here. Turning back to the empty road again, he bit his lip. “So, it’s all out there? Everything about me?”

“Most likely.” Michael replied, absently gazing at distant shooting stars. “I can’t say I’ve spent time combing through the details of anyone’s personal heaven, but…” He let his head drop to the side and Dean could practically feel the adoring gaze on his profile. “You _are_ special.”

Oh boy. Dean cleared his throat, more than ready to nip this soap opera in the bud. “You know, where I come from, we believe in keeping the mystery alive.”

“But you’re intended to be mine,” Michael tilted his head, his stupid perfect eyebrow arching in mild perplexity. “Why should you be a mystery?" 

“Because...well,” Dean floundered uselessly. If there was a way to answer that question without first launching into a lecture on personal privacy, he couldn’t think of it. “I’m just saying, we don’t gotta be _those_ people-- people who hold hands and listen to each other’s heartbeat and shit.”

“I don’t have a heart,” Michael mused.

Dean sighed in despair. He had hoped that Castiel was an exception, but apparently all angels were weird little dorks in some way or another.  

“But I have eighteen hands,” Michael was going on. “We could share pie in the sunset.”

A terrific _thunk_ of metal immediately punctuated his words. Dean casually glanced at Michael as he lost his balance and neatly smacked into the passenger-side door, and promptly poured all his sympathy into gently patting Baby’s dashboard. Besides, the archangel in charge probably knew why a Heaven made for Dean suddenly planted a massive pothole in a previously immaculate highway.

Sure enough, Michael made a face and settled back like an eagle haughtily tucking its feathers in. “Or not.” he groused.

Dean stepped on the gas and laughed.


	2. Two

**Heaven**

It was snowing. Dean watched soft, thick flurries rain down on the frozen pond, buzzing with anticipation and just a little bit confused. He was still flushed from his last best memory because hooking up with a yoga instructor? Great call on his part.

Turned out, all souls in Heaven relived their greatest hits, and his personal montage began with the first time he successfully hustled pool. The cash stuffed in his pockets vanished when he walked through the next door, but it was worth it when he realized it was the day they celebrated Sam’s 15th birthday. To think Dean almost forgot the day his brother scored weed off some grandmotherly hippies in San Francisco and they ended up racing around the pier, laughing their asses off. Even the prissy ass archangel on his shoulder couldn’t help but smile when Dean showed off the scar he still had from that night, when he was high as a kite and fought a seagull for a spilled bag of corn chips.

The series of one night stands after that had been a lot more awkward. Hey, it was Dean’s Heaven, but no way he could enjoy it with Michael hovering around the edges like a surly pitbull. There was something still pretty terrifying about a depressed archangel; Dean suddenly imagined eighteen hands razing planets, softly whispering _goodbye cruel world_.

“Would you believe this is not on purpose?” he asked sheepishly, pulling the crumpled sheets over himself. The memory of Lisa was gone, but the bed wasn’t, nor was his state of undress.

“I believe that more than I believe half the moves I just saw you pull,” Michael replied dryly.

"Hey," Dean grinned cheekily and let the sheet slip a little. "I'm happy to prove 'em."

Michael stared back for a long moment in silence. Dean figured he wasn't considering it when he pointed toward the next door instead, and simply said, “We have work to do.”

The archangel was so full of static that it made Dean’s skin crawl and wonder if this put him on some kind of Heaven shit list. Showing off his promiscuity to the cosmic entity intended to be his uh, consort probably did. Dean sighed; it really wasn’t as if he could control which memory showed up next, but he wasn’t trying to be a jerk, either. He wanted to say something to ease this awkwardness, but all he could do now was draw the sheet around his hips, slip off the bed, and follow Michael through the next door while desperately hoping it didn’t lead to another sexual fever dream.

## -

The good news was that it didn’t. Dean breathed in the cold winter air and watched his breath cloud, grateful that the sheet had been replaced by decent, if not outdated, winter clothes. 

Michael was nowhere in sight again, but the woman beside him giggled and reached up to brush a flurry of snow off his nose. “Isn’t this fun, baby?” she asked, voice full of warmth and haunting nostalgia.

All of Dean’s present thoughts vanished. Throat dry, he allowed her to clasp his hand as they strolled aimlessly along the bank of a frozen pond dotted with ice skaters. On the far side, a giant, bedecked tree wished everyone a Merry Christmas.

When he finally spoke, his voice was small. Probably as small as it was when he last saw her alive. “Mom?”

She smiled at him and patted her belly which protruded slightly from the rest of her slender form. “You know, when we come next year, it’s going to be four of us.”

Dean nodded vacantly. He recognized this place now-- it was the Christmas holidays before Sam was born. Dad had taken them out to their small-town winter wonderland to see the lights and the big tree. Speaking of…

“Hey, buddy!”

The smell of hot popcorn wafted in the cold breeze. It was John, hurrying over with two steaming paper cones. Dean barely paid attention to the one handed to him with a warning to be careful. He was too busy staring raptly at his parents--these illusions of them, anyway--wrap themselves in each other. John said something inaudible and Mary laughed, bright eyed. John moved a stray blonde curl from her face and she brushed snow off his own dark hair. It was beautiful. It was a damn Rockwell painting, and Dean felt his face heat up with mortification.  

He supposed all kids were embarrassed to see their parents kiss. He supposed all kids turned red and squealed ‘No!’ when Mom pointed at her wedding pictures and said he’d find a love just like that. He also supposed quite a few kids grew out of that.

Dean Winchester-- hunter, brother, unattached drifter-- found a lot of pleasure, a good helping of satisfaction, sometimes even happiness, but he never did find love ‘just like that’. As for what that said about him...Dean wasn’t ignorant. He knew the fancy word for it: aromantic. He knew other words for it too. If he weren’t destined for a hunter’s funeral, ‘ _No chick flick moments’_ might as well be etched on his grave. But he had other moments, too; sadly, there was no word for a hopeless son of bitch who would trade his life for Mom and Dad to have one tender moment more with each other, even if he didn’t know what to do with it himself.

Still, there was one kind of tenderness he understood completely. He waited until he remembered her catching his eye. “I love you, mom.”

The memory played on like a video. A minute passed before she answered him, and it was with John’s arms wrapped around her waist. “Love you,” she whispered into that familiar leather jacket.

Ears roaring with the same kind of static that surrounded Michael just moments ago, Dean turned away. He stumbled into the snow, half desperately searching for the rest of Axis Mundi, but all there was was ice, and evergreens and...a naked man.

Once Dean got over his shock, he was instantly filled with rage after following the man’s gaze right to his parents.

“Hey!” Dean stalked over to him, but before he could wind up his fist for an appropriately painful greeting, the man spotted him and gasped gleefully.

“Dean?” he exclaimed disbelievingly. “Dean Winchester! Oh my Father, it’s such an honor to meet you!”

And yeah, it was hard to punch a naked guy when he was naked hugging you. Dean took several steps back as soon as humanly possible and managed to look stern again. “Who are you?” he demanded. “What the hell are you doing, perving on my folks?”

Naked Man looked horrified. “Oh Father, I wasn’t doing that at all! I was just on my way to the Garden when I spotted John and Mary Winchester. They…” his eyes grew misty. “They were my toughest assignment, but look at them now.”

“Your _assignment_?”

“Oh yes,” Naked Man insisted. “I’m a cupid. I bring couples together and your parents-- top priority in their day. You and Sam just had to be born, you know?”

Dean narrowed his eyes further. “You guys, _angels_...set them up?”

“We did indeed!” came the reply. “They couldn’t stand each other at first, but some coincidences here, an arrow of love there, and like I said...look at them now.”

This time, Dean did put his fist to good use. “They’re dead!”

A short, startled wail escaped the cupid. He disappeared instantly, and in the space of a breath, Michael reappeared. He casually caught Dean’s next fist in the palm of his hand. “I see you’re cutting this memory short.”

“Really?!” Dean exhaled sharply. “You sicced a cupid on my parents?”

“We had to be sure they would _become_ your parents,” Michael replied. “Their marriage might have been a convenience, but what they felt for each other wasn’t. They weren’t unhappy, Dean.” 

“Well, they ain’t around to testify, either.” Dean shot back. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and searched for the signs of a road again. “I don’t--isn’t this supposed to be a highlight reel? I wouldn’t exactly call this my happiest memory.”

  
Michael didn’t move, but it seemed like he shrugged anyway. “Perhaps _happy_ is a misnomer,” he said. “Memories don’t have to be happy to mean something.”  


	3. Three

**Heaven**

 

Angels and souls feasted in honor of the Righteous Man. Wavelengths of celestial intent didn’t need more than song, but there was something inseverable about the human experience of celebration and food, so Heaven provided.

Michael noted the overly riotous air to the occasion, and blamed it on rarity. They had been at war for too long and the Throne Room had stood ominously empty for longer than that, but the Garden was an oasis in the surrounding bleakness, a reminder of all who were there instead of who was conspicuously missing.

Dean had wandered off somewhere amid the throng of souls and grace, but Michael spotted him easily from his perch on the Throne Room steps. Dean had found old friends. Or, they found him—Ash’s success in translating Enochian was an open secret and even then, Michael’s true vessel making it home wasn’t exactly classified news.

Although, Dean was no Vessel to the crowd gathered in the Roadhouse. He was nothing more or less than the mortal they knew in a former life. Love freely given made that particular slice of Heaven gleam, and amid the drone of inlaid sigils and his own wings chiming against the empyrean steps, Michael felt particularly dull. How did it not exhaust Dean to give of himself so completely to everyone?

Michael remembered when they first met. He remembered it was and wasn’t as perfect as he dared imagine. Dean hadn’t exactly leapt up to say Yes, but he’d been there, teetering on the edge of faith and Michael had peered into his soul. It was resplendent--sunrise suspended in a winsome human frame. Dean had his share of empty, unfulfilled spaces--all mortals did--but for once, Michael had been fascinated by those valleys made perfect for his grace. It wasn’t just that he could have illuminated Dean Winchester with boundless light; in that first moment, he would have lifted the mortal to these very steps and poured stars at his feet.

Therein lay the catch: something told him stars wouldn’t mean much to Dean at all, and yet the way to win him over was outside Michael’s purviews as they stood now. He had been enthralled by Dean on that bed, but he wasn’t Cassie; wasn’t Lisa; wasn’t Benny and Rhonda and Victor...

That was a rather curious path of memories, Michael reflected, but it wasn’t as if Dean knew what he was doing. He rather doubted the hunter really intended to make him feel...well.

Michael just finished reiterating to himself that covetousness was not a virtue when Raphael joined his side with whoosh of wings, an electric ozone scent, and somewhat of a mournful apology. “Brother, I feel I must say sorry.”

Michael glanced at Raphael. “Why is that?”

“I should have bought him to you, ready to say Yes.” the healer sighed and followed his gaze to the Roadhouse. “We waste time entertaining him when we should be planning our next move in this war.”

“All plans don’t happen in war rooms, you know that,” Michael returned gently. He invited their thirdborn into the crook of his largest wing. “And besides, Dean Winchester is exactly where he belongs. If this is all he wants in return, so be it.”

“One can only hope,” Raphael said. “He is a menace.”

“He is—“ Michael considered. “—human.” He waited until Raphael settled against him and leaned into curves of his many hands. “Brother, you know they work, right?”

“To the last atom, Michael, how may I regale you?”

“What does sex do for him that this…” Michael gestured to their own tangle of limbs and grace and wings. “...cannot? These intimacies were made for humans, too, last I checked.”

“Not all of them,” Raphael shrugged. “I’m perplexed; what does it matter that your vessel’s missing romance from his grab bag of traits?”

“Because he’s _my vessel_.” Michael replied, rather unevenly. “He’s supposed to be made perfect for me.”

“He’s not just yours,” Raphael reminded him. “The Mark he bears prepares him for Amara, too. If Dean does not become your sword, he will become her pawn, and sentiment is of no import in either case.”

The healer slowly looked up when Michael didn't reply. "Is it?"

“I...thought it might help,” Michael said finally. “Humans tend to be more agreeable under those kinds of attachments.”

"Well, I've never known you to surrender at an impasse," Raphael countered. "You'll find another in, I'm sure."

Sure, Michael agreed silently, but it didn’t mean that the freewill bit still didn’t complicate things. Another pair of wingbeats startled the air. Joshua appeared before them in simple white, eyes sombre. His hands were coated in wet, loamy earth that spilled over his fingertips and dusted the length of his robe.

“Hester’s garrison has returned,” the only angel who talked to God said simply. “Most of it. Raphael is needed in lower Heaven.” He didn’t have to say anything for them to understand. Raphael was never needed unless things were serious, and things were serious for one reason only.

“She's getting bolder,” Raphael looked disgusted. “Michael, this break from war must need be done.”

"Of course," Michael nodded. His brother was right; the length of courtship was time his soldiers did not have. Still, he lingered a few moments more on the crystal steps after after Joshua and Raphael took wing. Lower angels had begun a chorus somewhere in the distance, and in the corners of his eyes, the Roadhouse still gleamed.

* * *

**Providence, Rhode Island. One week ago...**

 

_Dean thrust the Impala’s gear into park and rushed out of the car without bothering to shut off the ignition. This particular car chase ended with the scumbag he’d been chasing slumped over the steering wheel as the life bled out of him. Shattered glass spread out on the road like cold stars on an asphalt sky and rivulets of blood ran freely over the metal rod that shook loose from the truck ahead of him and rammed him through the chest. The purse belonging to the girl Dean had pulled him off of mere minutes ago was still in the passenger seat._

_“Holy…”_

_He looked up at the sound of footsteps. A man was headed toward him, but Dean doubted he was the driver whose truck bed supplied this instrument of karmic justice. It wasn’t that the guy was not panicking over having killed someone. It wasn’t that he casually strolled up to the body and wrenched the metal rod out with little force and a nasty sucking noise that seemed creepier in this silent night. It was more that he made one tiny gesture and turned the rapist’s car into his pyre._

_Dean was too mesmerized by the flames--pure and smokeless--to reach for his gun. When they died down eventually, the following quiet was broken by the sound of iron hitting gravel. Dean looked at the stern-eyed, muscular figure casually leaning on the bloody spear while holy fire scorched that revolting bastard from the world, and suddenly flashed back 24 hours. Hours ago, he stood in a church with Sam, who pointed to a painting and asked the padre, “Father, that’s--”_

_“Michael, right?”_

_The man inclined his head. “Dean Winchester.”_

_Dean exhaled through the goosebumps breaking out on his arms. If there was an audio equivalent of a rough and bloody kiss against a red brick wall, it would be the way Michael said his name. But this was probably not the time or place to think about that._

_“I guess we should talk, huh?”_

_Michael advanced toward him again. “Oh, I’m here to do more than that.”_

_“Uh.”_

_Heart pounding for no sane reason, Dean watched Michael toss the iron rod aside. It impaled a patch of grass offroad, turning the abandoned lane into a small battlefield. The archangel met his eyes. “Chin up, Dean, you’re going to Heaven.”_

_All at once, it was like being drenched in ice water. Dean took an instinctive step back. “Look, pal, I know what your little brother said about...us, but I ain’t anybody’s wife.”_

_“Consort.”_

_Dean frowned. “What?”_

_“You’d be my consort, not my wife,” Michael explained pointedly. “We’re not going to join in holy matrimony; you’d be my vessel, but with your soul bound to my grace; your mortal flesh housing us both so you’ll be safe.”_

_Dean stared for a long moment. “Am I being punk’d right now?”_

_“Dean,” Michael gave him a look._

_“Ok, humor me,” Dean interrupted. “So, I’m your vessel and you get my...mortal flesh, or whatever. What next?"_

_“We engage Amara from a position of greater strength,” Michael replied without missing a beat, but his voice softened when he said, “More importantly, she can't get to you."_

_Dean immediately scowled. “Look, I want to defeat Amara. I do, but you ain’t gonna wear me to prom and dick around in my body.”_

_“So you’d rather endure,” Michael challenged. “Wake up everyday with the Mark of Cain whispering in your ear, and somehow hope this isn’t the day it catches you offguard?”_

_“Well, I can be stubborn,” Dean answered. Bravado was suddenly on low supply, but someone had to have faith in his ability not to run off with fucking primordial Darkness, and it wasn’t going to be these feathery assholes. “You might not believe me, but we’re doing our part in this fight.”_

_Michael didn’t reply right away. Dean felt him staring, as if the archangel were examining the strength of his willpower and found him wanting. Then, all at once, he shrugged. “Then, you’ll need a weapon that is as stubborn as you are.”_

_“I…” Dean wrinkled his brow. “What?”_

_“There is one in Heaven,” Michael continued as if he hadn’t heard. “Wrought by Father Himself--better than the Hands of God that you and Sam are raiding church basements for.”_

_“Hold on,” Dean retorted, incredulous. “If Heaven’s got something that big, why haven’t you used it? Why didn’t you take Amara out?"_

_“Because it’s not meant for angels,” Michael replied, looking only a little annoyed at the fact. “It’s in our vault, but we can’t touch it."_

_“And so, you’re just giving it to us?”_

_Michael smirked. “Let us be clear: I’m not_ giving _you anything but a choice. You can certainly spend your days running, trying to resist Amara; but I’d still rather you become my sword and serve a far greater purpose than you do now.”_

* * *

 

**Heaven**

Dean was drinking when Michael found him. He was at the bar and had just grabbed two shots from the several hundred hovering around Inias. He kept one and thrust the other at Pamela.

“Is it really that bad?” she was asking him. “The attic’s better than the basement, kiddo, and anything’s better than circling the drain.”

“I get it,” Dean slurred back, but his eyes were far away. “But, man, you fight tooth and nail, you make it, and then they just stick you in an instant replay--what about people who didn’t get to do shit? Whose life sucked ass ‘cause they were born in the wrong place, in the wrong kinda meatsuit? Where’s their do-over? This ain’t bliss, it’s--Mike!”

Dean waved haphazardly from the other end of the bar, and even if Michael couldn’t see the array of hazy, swimming colors in his aura, Dean’s apparent inability to climb off a bar stool would have tipped him off to the hunter’s state of mind. Strangely, Michael didn’t have to resist the urge to teleport him over. Dean’s unsteady steps, like a child set on beloved intent, was endearing.

“I see you’re enjoying yourself,” he said when the hunter finally made it.  

“Hell of a party,” Dean replied, then paused. “So to speak. Is it time for the main event?”

“Soon.” Michael nodded. “But you should rest.”

“I’m not tired,” said Dean. “Actually, I haven’t been since I got here.”

“We pride ourselves on lifting a few earthly limits, yes,” Michael agreed. “But entering the vault is no small thing, and I can’t control what happens to you there. You should be prepared.”

“Oh.” Dean’s expression sobered. He looked at his empty shot glass and then back at his group of friends. Michael watched him swallow, aura rippling with anxiety. “Um, so, is this like my last night on Earth kinda shindig?”

“For Father’s sake, you’re not going to die, Dean.”

“Ok, then maybe don’t sound so ominous, ya dick!” Dean snapped back, face scrunched into endearing reproach.

This time, affection surged through Michael’s grace like an inkdrop blooming in clear water. Without thinking, he reached up and smoothed a wrinkle on Dean’s collar. “Well, it’s your last night here, like this with your friends.”

A cluster of emotions spilled haphazardly from Dean at those words, pushing and ebbing against Michael’s grace. There was something else, too. It glimmered doubtfully at the edge of the hunter’s fingertips as they hovered over Michael’s own hand on his clothes.  

“Hey, you still mad at me?”

“For?”

“Umm, the memories. That you had to see all my one-night stands, I guess.” Dean looked uncertain. “It’s just...I like being with people. Hunting is one thing, but sometimes you need the thrill without the added danger of dying, y’know?”

Michael wasn’t certain he did. Then again, he was barely concerned with the nuances of human needs. What he cared about was Dean, and all those waiting spaces in his soul.

“I’m not angry at you for living your life,” he said. “But I want you to understand: to serve our Father is great, but ultimately lonesome work. I promise your sacrifices won’t be forgotten, and your rewards at the end of the fight--”

“Oh come on,” Dean drew away and scrubbed his hand across his face. “Enough with the company line. I get it: I take the stage, I get crazy perks. But what about everyone else?”

“What do you want, Dean?”

“I want my world to be safe. And my friends...they’re all hunters, I think they’ll never retire,” Dean’s eyes were far away, hazy with alcohol. “But Sam should have a home, y’know, for all his nerdy shit.”

“And what about yourself?” Michael asked softly. He closed his hand around Dean’s again, tugged until they were close enough to share a breath, and let a hint of hope creep into his voice. “Do you think about you? And me?”

Dean frowned dazedly. “I haven’t _not_ thought about me ‘n you,” he mumbled.

Another uncertain moment passed. Michael placed two fingers on his forehead, and the fog of alcohol instantly lifted. Dean blinked, eyes bright and clearly green again. “Son of a bitch, you sobered me up.”

Michael smirked. “You were saying?”

No longer mellow under the influence, Dean smirked sharply. “I said,” he moved in until their foreheads touched. “I haven’t _not_ thought about me and your feathery ass.”

Grace soaring at their proximity, Michael laughed. “I don’t actually have feathers on--”

“Dude, don’t,” Dean cut him off firmly. “Don’t fuckin’ ruin this. Just get your angel mojo on and let’s get outta here.”

 


	4. Four

**Heaven**

Since the first human died and successfully made it upstairs, every angel among the spheres had their favorite Heaven. Castiel preferred the Tuesday morning of a certain autistic man; Naomi preferred a busy spring market-day of a Japanese chef; Uriel loved his sports arenas, but everyone knew the best sunset in Heaven was in the paradise of an elderly maid who used to clean the observation deck on Bear Lake Observatory in 1996.

Even Dean was distracted by light spilling like thick honey across the whitewashed dome of the observatory. Not enough to stop shrugging out of his jacket, however, and walking in until he had Michael backed up against the wall just beside the massive telescope. 

Wind blew past the deck in a dull roar as Michael tentatively bought his own hands up to cup Dean’s face. To his relief, the hunter didn’t tense up.

“Can I kiss you?”

Dean gave a short, husky laugh and licked his lips. “Yeah, whatever you want, buttercup.”

He moved in first, and to Dean’s credit, the first quick touch of their lips _was_ a kiss. It just turned too sharp, too quickly. Michael gasped when Dean bit his bottom lip and immediately dragged his teeth across his jawline. The act itself felt flat, but Dean himself was so warm, so vital...

The hunter pulled back and winked. “You like that?”

Michael watched him--Dean was coiled and pleasurably tense, bliss stained his aura pink. “It wasn’t terrible.”

Dean pouted back. He pressed his lips to Michael’s ear and brought a hand down to his waist.

“Then, tell me what you want,” he said. The pressure of his hand grew as he followed the curve of Michael’s hip and slipped down to his ass. “Promise I’ll make it good.”

Michael yielded to the pressure and let his legs spread. It was awkward, but it did slot their bodies together. They touched everywhere now--ankle to ankle, hip against hip, Dean’s head buried somewhere in the crook of his neck. Michael felt a surge of protective affection, and judging by the wild glimmer in his eyes, Dean too was pleased. Michael watched him efficiently unbutton his shirt. He didn’t resist when Dean slipped skillful fingers under said shirt, but he grabbed the hand on his chest and bought it up to kiss Dean’s palm. A pulse pounded hotly against the thin skin there, sounded like oceans and thunder, threaded by the lightning bite of human soul.

Michael sighed when Dean settled on him, their bodies flush, once again tucked into each other’s curves. It didn’t last long, however. Dean whispered in his ear once again. “Tell me what you want, Mike.”

Michael shuddered. He might have sobered Dean up, but now he was high on their mere touch. He was sure Dean felt it too, this unspeakable trace transfer of soul and grace between their brittle mortal coils, but the hunter just smiled, head firmly above the waves that were dragging Michael down by limb and wing. A human anchoring divinity; it turned-- _Dean_ turned the rules of self-possession on their head.

“Stop,” Michael’s voice shrank from a thing that commanded Heaven’s host to a point between himself and his true vessel.

The spell shattered when Dean obeyed, instantly stumbling back and leaving Michael to regret losing the proximity. “What’s wrong?”

He looked worried, and just like that, all that Michael kept hidden without saying flared like a lit match. The archangel straightened, and his shadow behind him loomed even larger, wings and hands and a lion’s red mouth casting an ominous pall over the white dome.  

The light clinging to Michael’s human skin echoed the sun in the distance. “I love you.”

There was no pause, no hesitation. “Ok,” Dean replied like were talking to something wounded. “Ok, yeah, I hear you.”

Michael felt something drop unpleasantly at the core of his grace. It only got worse when he tried to reach out and Dean immediately checked behind him to gauge the drop from their perch to the ground. He should have paid attention to the wrongness of it all before it went this far.

“You should go and rest,” he said instead. “The vault still waits you.”

Dean exhaled steadily. “Michael, look, if I…”

“Goodnight, Dean.” Michael snapped his fingers and the hunter was gone.

* * *

 

 **South Dakota.** **_Three days ago..._ **

_There weren’t many ways to get into Heaven. Sometimes, it took a lifetime of goodness; sometimes it took radical devotion; other time, it was possible to barely scrape by after soul wrenching repentance for all your sins. But failing that, one could just book an appointment with Dr. Roberts._

_Dean, eyeing the sketchy apartment and its resident old, off-license, very former medical professional, began to reconsider Raphael’s offer to bring him in the easy way. Surely, there were worse ways to die than stroke by archangel. And actually, that stuff about Raphael being able to control the human body’s electrical grid had been interesting in a morbid sort of way. Kind of like that episode of Dr. Oz with the tumor with the hair and teeth..._

_Sam huffed disbelievingly for the sixth time, and Dean opened the door on his side. “You wanna wait in the car, Sammy?"_

_Sam scowled back. “No,” he stated. “But I’m still not a hundred percent sure about this."_

_Dean sighed—they were so close to not having his conversation! Again. “Sam, I’m fine."_

_“How?” Sam insisted. “I know you. You don’t exactly do the whole marriage thing."_

_“What marriage thing?” Dean scowled at the dirty ceiling. “Also, you know I ain't actually wearing a white veil, holding posies, and saying I Do to an archangel, right?"_

_“And yet, that’s a pretty specific scenario."_

_“Dude, screw you.”_

_“I’m just saying,” Sam continued. “It’s the Darkness, and you have the Mark. I know you feel responsible, but this is still what it is: a choice."_

_“Oh, come off it,” Dean rolled his eyes. “We don't have a chance against Amara without the angels, and we don’t have the angels without Michael. Writing’s on the wall, man.”_

_Sam shifted his entire bulk to face him this time. “Dean, do you really think the angels are going to sit back and let the Darkness win if you don’t agree to let them yank your chain? They have a stake in this too!"_

_“But they don’t have a stake in us!” Dean returned. “If I get…angel married-- “ god, it felt gross just saying it. "--they work with us. Otherwise, it’s every species for themselves and who do you think is most likely to go the way of dinosaurs?"_

* * *

 

**Heaven**

The tires of the Impala screeched against the road as Dean slammed the brakes in frustration. Getting out of the car, he checked his surroundings and groaned into Baby’s dark frame. He had passed that stupid mile marker surrounded by stupid purple flowers for the third stupid time; it was official: he was going in circles.

Honestly, he wondered if the alternative was better. The goal, when he woke up in an eerily beautiful room with candlesticks and freakin’ crown molding, was to get back out and find Michael. To that end, the plan was to find Ash and use his Enochian radar thing. The plan for finding Ash for his plan to reach his goal of finding Michael was...less than solid. Dean didn’t know where Ash’s heaven was; he didn’t have a map of the spheres just lying in his glove compartment (he’d checked); and his god-like sense of direction on American interstates probably didn’t translate to the roads of actual God.

Well, wherever he was, the breeze was cooler. And the sky was different.

Peeling himself off the car, Dean looked up and squinted at the firmament. This one wasn’t that hippie-ish purple he’d gotten used to; it was very clearly, very starkly blue. What he thought were clouds were actually clusters of light, which occasionally crumbled down to dust...someone’s rose garden on its last legs.

Eyeing the unkempt field, Dean patted his car’s hood. “Baby, I got a feeling we’re not on Axis Mundi anymore.”

“And you’d be correct, unlike your decision to leave your chambers without an escort.”

Dean whirled around and came face to face with an old man. Well, an angel wearing a really smug and really, really punchable old man. “Who’re you?”

“Zachariah,” the angel replied with a fake smile. “And you’re Dean Winchester. I know what you are, but it still doesn’t give you the right to wander freely about.”

Dean grimaced. Just his luck that when he really needed to get shit done, Heaven provided the douchiest angel. “Look, man, I wasn’t trying to be shady. I was actually looking for Michael, so if you could just--”

“I could, but won’t,” Zachariah replied. “See, you’re unimportant. You don’t ask for Michael, he asks for you.”

“And you’re asking for an ass-kicking!” Dean growled back.

“Hah!” Zachariah sneered. “Challenging an angel in Heaven, that’s--”

“That’s enough, Zachariah.” Dean turned his head to spot Michael on the other side of the car. The archangel made a dismissive gesture. “You’re done here.”

Zachariah opened his mouth to say something, but the exasperated look on Michael’s face sent him fluttering. Dean resisted the urge to flip off the very air where he stood, and instead peered at Michael over the car.

“Um, I got lost,” he explained sheepishly. Dean waved at the damaged fields on either side of the lane. “Musta ended up in a bad neighborhood. Does Heaven have...bad neighborhoods?”

Michael blinked slowly, like he were deciding where to drive this conversation. Dean wondered if the angel knew why he was out and about, but in any case, he at least hoped Michael wouldn’t avoid the talk by zapping him away. 

“It depends on your definition, I suppose,” Michael said finally. “This used to be Lucifer’s domain.”

“Oh, shit,” Dean looked around again. Yeah, the clear blue sky and honeyed light did feel Lucifer-themed, sort of. And honestly, so did the furrows of burnt roses and trees that looked like they’d been struck by lightning. Still, he could imagine what this place might have looked like--fresh wet roses, slanted beams of light, polished diamond snow…

“You ok?”

Michael snapped back to attention. “Yes.”

Dean nodded. “Hey, about last evening...that shouldn’t have happened, man, I’m sorry.”

“ _You’re_ sorry?” Michael’s brow wrinkled.

“I am,” Dean replied, eyes lowered contritely. “I mean, I know exactly what I’m about. But I should have asked you. It’s like rule number one, but I just...steamrolled ahead like an ass and--and you got a right to be upset at that.”

“But I took us to the observatory,” Michael tipped his head in askance.

“Yeah, but I pushed. You were only trying to...tell me stuff and I--” Dean paused. When he collected his words again, he allowed a plea to creep into his voice. “Look, if you want to boot me out, I understand, but don’t abandon all those people and families down there. Please.”

“Dean, I’m not angry at you. I understand.” Michael said seriously. “What you are isn’t a mistake; even in this, you proved you were always made for me.”

“What?” Dean felt stupid. No dancing around it; he was barely himself, Lucifer’s domain was too bright, and Michael said the right words, but they felt all wrong.

“Don’t get me wrong, you’re strong,” Michael looked at him meaningfully. “The strongest vessel there is, in fact, but as you stand now, you’re incomplete. Amara knows it, too.”

“Are you serious?” Dean exclaimed before he could stop himself. “I’m talking about you _protecting_ _innocent people_ , and you want to rag on me just because I’m not down to stage a romcom under the sunset?”

“What I’m saying is that a million acts of chance that caused you to be born a legacy of both John Winchester and Mary Campbell; a million random choices that led you to this moment, didn’t just happen on a whim.” Michael narrowed his eyes obstinately. “We’re all made to serve a plan, Dean, and the only way it can end well in our favor is if you choose to be complete. Otherwise, Amara will have all she needs to end this world, along with your innocent multitudes."

“Ok, screw you!” Dean felt his patience crack under the awakening, low-frequency panic he hadn’t known since he first heard about the rising apocalypse. "Look, I don't know what your deal is, but I didn't want any of this. Sam and I didn't become hunters because we wanted to be heroes; it was because a demon killed our Mom and it broke our Dad!”

Michael’s expression didn’t change, and neither did Dean's rage. “Yeah, that happy couple back there in my slice of the Matrix?" he continued recklessly. "That wasn’t a plan; you made that happen! And now, you’re gonna try and pull the same shit with me?”

The hunter scoffed disgustedly. “Sure, call me incomplete; call me whatever you want. But I'm never going to be your bitch.”

Michael’s face crumpled very briefly. He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything, an explosion shook the air. Dean immediately turned on the hair trigger of his anger and his instincts. Beside him, the archangel had moved right past curiosity to concern to outright horror. 

That was Dean saw it--an incoming storm, eating the very stars in its path. It advanced like black ink spilled on a blue sheet, and the closer it got, the more Dean’s forearm ached. He pushed up his sleeve and groaned at the Mark, which had grown red and stark against his skin like a fresh burn.

No way to deny it now, that cloud was definitely Amara.

There was a hiss of metal and the angel blade gleamed in Michael's hand. The archangel was burning too. His eyes were white hot, and Dean had already seen the monstrous shadows of his wings arching overhead.

Dean didn’t even have the time to make sense of it when Michael turned to him. There was nothing soft about him anymore, not in his eyes, not in his fingertips, certainly not the sharp line of his mouth when he said, “You have to go.”

“Wh--wait!” Dean backed away, but Michael's fingers were already on his forehead and his vision went white.


	5. Five

**South Dakota**

He came to in Dr. Robert’s place again, but he wasn’t exactly alone. The adrenaline and trepidation from being face to face with Amara came with him and the old man and his nurse were having a time of it holding him down. Lucky for them, Sam wasn’t too far away.

Dean let his brother hold him down while the doctor untrussed him from the medical equipment. They were asking him questions, probably about why he returned so early, but since Dean was in no reasonable mood to answer them, he let Sam pay the guy and make empty promises to come back for a follow up. For his own part, he pushed his way out of the claustrophobic little apartment into the bright outdoors and gulped fresh air.

Sam padded out eventually and looked at him in askance.

“Let’s just go,” Dean sighed. “I’ll explain on the way.”

The drive across state lines back to the bunker was relatively uneventful. Sam insisted on taking the wheel, and Dean didn’t complain because even he wasn’t prideful enough to operate a 3-ton vehicle while his brain was _processing_ other things. Like the fact that Amara had the juice to kick Heaven’s door down; that Michael was somewhere staring her down; that he was a grade-A bastard, but even he didn’t deserve to go at her alone. Probably.

Sam was a little freaked out, too, Dean could tell; his shoulders were tight and so was his grip on the steering wheel. An equally tense silence settled over them. Staring out the window at endless miles of farmland and blue sky, Dean made a face at the fucking normalcy of it all.

-

“I can’t get a hold of Cas,” Sam finally said when they stopped for lunch at some chain diner just this side of the Nebraska border. He’d been obsessively checking his phone while waiting for their food.

“Cas?” Dean looked up from perusing the margarita menu.

Sam nodded. “Castiel?” he said, drumming his fingertips on the table. “Angel in a trenchcoat?"

“Oh, I know,” Dean returned, seizing on a bit of glee. “Just didn’t know it was _Cas_ now.”

Sam opened and closed his mouth, looking mildly flustered. “Anyway,” he dodged the topic. “He hasn’t returned any of my calls or messages.”

The waiter arrived with their plates, and Dean grinned for non-food related reasons. “Well, shit, play harder to get, Samantha.”

“I’m serious,” Sam replied. “The last time I talked to him was when you woke up. When you said Michael zapped you back. I mean, could he have been called back to his post? He is in a...a garrison, or whatever, right?”

Any wry comeback on Dean’s lips died when he saw the worry roll across his brother’s face again. “Hey, we’ll figure it out, ok?” he said. “We got demons and witches and some douchey old magicians on our call list; one of them should know what’s going on.”

Sam sighed without replying. In another stretch of tense silence, they both tucked into their food. Dean polished off his fries in record time; a confrontation with primordial chaos made him hungry apparently. On the other hand, Sam was barely picking at his salad. It might have to do with the unholy mix of anemic vegetables with questionably prepared dressing, but in case it wasn’t, Dean set his burger down and cleared his throat.

“Uh, so are you and Cas…?” he ventured. Sam looked up and he continued. “Are you two doing it or--”

“No!” Sam actually protested.

Dean raised his greasy fingers defensively. “Hey, I ain’t judging or anything.”

“No, I mean, we’re not actually doing it,” Sam replied. “Cas is asexual.”

“Oh,” Dean glanced down at his plate, distracting himself from the pit in his stomach. “That’s cool, man, I’m happy for you. And hey, at least, you don’t have to explain that weird mole on Sammy Jr.”

Predictably, Sam made a face, but didn’t dignify the comment with a reply.

“And what about you?” he asked instead. “How are you and Michael getting along?”

Dean regretted ever opening his mouth. In his attempt to make his brother feel better, he was only poking that nagging pit in his stomach again. “Well, there is room for improvement,” Dean replied. “He’s got the asexual schick going on, too. Still a dick, though.”

“Yeah,” Sam snorted. “Same as Lucifer.”

“Dude, do I even wanna know?” Dean asked. “Lucifer? I wasn’t even gone for that long!”

“It’s not like that!” Sam returned. “He’s just at the bunker all the time. And you know, Dean,” he ventured, nervously tapping his fork against his plate. “I know what I said before, but now I think it might be a good thing to keep Michael close.”

“I’m not saying you need an archangel to play house,” Sam amended before Dean could shut him down. “I mean, as someone to talk to.”

“Talk about what?”

Sam nodded in that way of his when he was metaphorically digging in his heels. “I dunno.” he said. “But we are Michael and Lucifer’s true vessels; we have some common ground with them.”

“What the hell do you have in common with the devil?” Dean exclaimed.

“Ok, it's not like he's a character out of a kid's book. Lucifer had...has, a life,” Sam stabbed a tomato and a crouton into submission. “Look, for whatever it’s worth, their stories are sort of our stories. If you think about the big picture—”

“Michael doesn’t care, Sam!” Dean glared at his brother, finally losing his patience. “He thinks I don’t do the romance thing because a piece of me is missing. He thinks he can fix me, or Amara will. There’s your big picture!”

“Wow,” Sam grimaced pityingly. “That’s pretty fucked up; you ok?”

Dean shook his head irritably. “‘Course I am. This ain’t a soap opera.”

“So...is it over?”

Dean frowned. Sam made it sound so simple when it was anything but. It wasn’t just about a random spat, it was about seeing the choices spread out before him and making the right one. It was a precarious set of scales--the world in one pan and what little he owned of himself in another. At what point did sacrifice become surrender?

“Dean,” Sam was talking again, voice low and deceptively soothing. “The way I see it, the angels are doing no better than the demons, or us. There’s nothing stopping Amara right now, so maybe it isn’t about who’s got more firepower. Maybe it’s about everyone who wants to live sticking together.”

“I hope you don’t expect it to be as easy as that.” Dean punctuated his retort with a loud slurp of his drink.

Sam huffed. “It's bound to get a little messy.”

“Well, get your mess to go, Sammy.” Dean replied, standing up to wriggle his way out of the suddenly claustrophobic dining booth. “Gotta move if we want to get home before dark.”

\--

**Stull Cemetery. _Days later..._**

Contrary to popular belief, there was usually more life in a cemetery than death. After all, the point of dust returning to dust was to begin anew. But as Michael looked around the old boneyard in Lawrence, Kansas, that fact was proving to be untrue.

Most of Stull was dead and bizarrely silent. Graves were razed, bones withered, and there were stretches of earth scorched with a Nothingness that made even him uneasy. He took care to step around them, but it didn’t erase how they got there. Amara had found a weakness in the gates to Heaven, and she had struck at it from here. The sentries had no chance.

Michael pensively followed a wing-shaped patch of decimation, whose pinions pointed steadily west. It didn’t escape him that he was close to that infamous bunker and that the Winchesters might have also detected the disturbance in Stull, but surely, he had better things to do than mope. Not like Castiel, who'd patriotically returned to his garrison when Amara invaded Heaven, but spent all his downtime gazing at that damned bunker. Michael questioned little of Father's work, but he would have liked to know what He was thinking when He made Winchesters. 

The sound of chimes and silver grace broke the silence of the cemetery, and Michael stood from where he was examining a half burnt sigil. “Lucifer,” he greeted.   

“Hello, brother.”

Michael waited until Lucifer picked his way through the multitude of abysses before he asked, “What are you doing here?”

Lucifer casually tore a sliver of skin from his fingertips. “Same as you, admiring our Auntie’s work.”

Michael frowned. He wanted to say something about the disrespect afforded to their Father, but he and Lucifer were past such petty arguments now. “We’re running out of time.” he said instead.

“And whose fault is that?” Lucifer retorted. “You had him, Michael; you had Dean right there in your house and couldn’t close the deal.”

Michael felt a regretful chill ripple across his grace. Amara’s raid and the subsequent military response had not given him the time to reflect on what occurred, but the heart of the matter was obvious. “Dean doesn’t understand. He’s convinced that being my vessel will somehow diminish him when it can only make us stronger.”

“Not the way you tell it,” Lucifer said slyly.

“And how else should I tell it?” Michael folded his arms, staring at his brother across the desolation. “The plan has always been for us to unite with our true vessels. Why else should Father have made them for us?”

“Michael, Dad’s gone,” Lucifer sighed. “You don’t have to play his game anymore; I mean, you never even knew the rules."

"You'd have me turn my back on Heaven," Michael asked coldly. "At a time like this?"

"I'd have you stop assuming the worst of me," Lucifer's grace flared, crashed against the walls of his vessel until it cracked some more. "Why not just step off the chessboard? And ask Dean Winchester for his help in this fight?”

“Because that’s not how things work.”

“Oh, what do you know about how things work?” Lucifer demanded. “I had be jailbroken from the Pit and I’m pretty sure I’m on the same page you are.”

Michael shook his head. “We can’t defeat an enemy who is Father’s equal by going off-script.”

“That what the grand plan is? Your security blanket?” Lucifer mocked. “What are you so afraid of, Michael? You know that even if Dean won’t say Yes; if his soul won’t fill your grace, you will still be enough.”

Lucifer waved his attempt at a retort to the side and raised his brows. “Know how I know?” he asked archly. His voice dropped to a more mournful octave for the answer. “Because you’re not actually alone without Dad's word behind you. You’re not even His trademark little tool. Well, you are a tool, just not the angsty kind of--"

"Are you quite done, Lucifer?"

His brother shrugged wryly. "The terrible truth is this, Michael: it’s the Year of Our Lord twenty-sixteen. Hell's withering, the sun is dying, Heaven's got a nice, big hole in it. And here we all are; demons, humans, and angels: #teamCreation.”

Michael frowned curiously at Lucifer joining the first two fingers of each hand to make a grid in the air. “That’s…”

“Disgusting, I know,” Lucifer nodded sympathetically. “But times change.”

“That’s not what I said, Lucifer.” Michael stated plainly. Then, he looked down, his brother’s fake melancholy touching him all too genuinely. “I’m not sure how to make this work again. Dean won’t talk to me.”

“I’m shocked,” Lucifer deadpanned. “But you're my brother. In the interest of saving Dad’s last perfect masterpiece, I’ll lend you a hand.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I'm too magnificent to die,” Lucifer replied casually. “But first, we'll need holy oil. Lots of it.”


	6. Six

**Lebanon, Kansas**

Days at the bunker passed by with no news, and even less turn out on lore about the Darkness. Sam channeled his angst about Castiel into obsessive cleaning, while Dean channeled his into arguing with Lucifer about ways to get Sam to stop obsessively cleaning. The whole thing was clearly about Cas and unsurprisingly, the devil wasn't much help on that front. At least not to Dean. He did invite himself to breakfast to reassure Sam that Castiel had indeed been called back to his post, that it was an all-hands-on-deck situation in Heaven after Amara Kool-Aid man'd it there. 

It helped a little. Sam seemed like he was backing off right up until Dean caught his brother trying to carve iconography into the kitchen faucets. 

"It's for holy water," was Sam's whacky explanation. "Remember that time you replaced the water in the flasks with whiskey because you figured, who needs holy water, right?"

Dean couldn't believe it. "One time, Sam. And we're really not gonna need instant holy water to wash our plates."

For a moment, Sam actually looked like he might argue the point. Dean instantly whipped out the big guns. 

"You wanna grab a beer?" he asked. "It'll be great; we'll get out of the house, get some air, gab a little."

Sam frowned curiously. And a little suspiciously, Dean noted with some indignation. "You want to drink? And talk?" Sam asked. "Like a specific conversation?"

"Totally, Sammy," Dean agreed. "One time offer only, man."

And that's how they ended up roaring down the back roads in the car while raindrops brushed past the windows and wet leaves crushed underwheel. It was a long way to a particular liquor store that carried a particular brand of beer, but the extra time was worth it because Sam was finally laughing. 

"A karaoke machine?" he was saying. "Like, it picked up and transcoded Enochian and everything?"

"Yeah, man," Dean replied. "I walk into the bar, Ash's got this crazy ass spread going, and the angels? Never seen karaoke before, and they're losing their minds over it! And you ain't heard Ramble On until you've heard it from a literal angelic choir." 

"That's great, Dean."

"Yeah, maybe you and Cas can give it a try sometime." Dean suggested airily. "I mean, you guys do that, right?"

"Mostly, we've been doing research," Sam replied easily. "But it'd be nice to do something traditionally fun."

Traditionally fun, who said nerdy shit like that?  That's what Dean wanted to ask, but what he ended up asking was: "So, I mean, what's it like?" Sam looked over, piqued. "I mean, I always knew my engine revs up in the sheets more than anywhere else. Cas doesn't get in the sheets, but you're into both the sex and the sappy shit. Does it ever feel like something's missing?"

Sam considered. "Uh, no? We all have needs--well, we don't _need_ things like sex, so I guess it's just a really strong want. But it's totally possible to make it work, if you like each other enough, I guess."

"Right?!" Dean slapped his palm on the steering wheel. "I knew it was bullshit...you choose to be complete."

"Uh, is this about Michael?" Sam asked.

"Pay attention, Sammy," Dean sniped back. "Of course, it is. I oughta kick his feathery ass."

"Right, of course," Sam sounded predictably skeptical. "But, uh, maybe you should try other things first? Couples counseling before ass-kicking?"

"We ain't a couple."

"You know what I mean, Dean," Sam ran a hand through his hair and watched the trees outside give way to civilization. "Talk. Get your stuff straight. You have to want it to work, not lie back and take it because you feel responsible for the world, or something. And if Michael's still a dick after that...I'll hold him down while you kick his ass."

Dean chuckled, turned his head to meet Sam's own grin. It felt like all the knots in his soul finally loosened. Still, he sighed regretfully. "It is a real nice ass, though, Sammy."

" _So_ happy for you, Dean."

"Good evening, boys."

"Jesus!" Dean veered back into his lane amid the honking and shouting of other angry drivers and glared fiercely into the rearview mirror. Lucifer smirked back from the backseat in all his derelict glory.

"Not quite, but I get the sentiment." Lucifer said breezily, as if he wasn't almost responsible for several untimely deaths. 

Even Sam inhaled in annoyance. "What do you want?"

Lucifer waved a manila folder at them. "I got you a case."

-

**Hope Springs**

Despite Lucifer's refusal to tell them how he'd found the case and his general mien of assholery, the job turned out to be real, and the victims had Amara written all over them.

Quite literally, as Dean discovered when he knocked out a pediatric nurse foaming at the mouth and examined the black marks etched on her skin. He didn’t have time to dwell on the fact that he could read that freaky shit, though--more were coming.

Shouldering his shotgun, Dean ran down the nearest corridor, searching desperately for an exit in this rat’s maze of gurneys and exam rooms. It was incredible; he and Sam only came into town that morning to check out a patient at Hope Springs hospital, who had gone rabid with ‘occulty marks’ and it didn’t even take until lunch for shit to go decidedly sideways. At this point, there was a legitimate chance that his cause of death might be a third rate zombie disaster movie.

Still, as the eerily abandoned maternity ward reminded him, the rabids were people--somebody’s mom, boyfriend, best friend--not monsters. Killing them all wasn’t a conscienable option. But if they didn’t find a cure soon...

Dean kept half an ear on the sound of snarls and moans filtering in through the walls. A curtain shifted to his left and he turned, only to sigh when the barrel of his gun pointed at empty air. Another rustle echoed beside him; a door being slammed open, and then the snarling noise was suddenly too close--

“Shit!” Dean ducked just in time for a human body to come hurtling at him full speed. It missed and crashed into the wall instead, but as the pulsing Mark on his forearm attested, they weren’t alone. A baker’s dozen more of the rabids fanned out, black tendrils climbing over their cheeks, reaching for their eyes.

The Mark ached so much he could barely hold the shotgun straight. Dean took a shuddering breath, curled his finger on the trigger. “Come on, you son of a bitch…”

Two pounced at once, but before he could fire his gun, a more traditional definition of fire exploded from the tile floor.

Dean tripped back and landed on his ass, eyes glued to the random yet perfectly geometric instance of spontaneous combustion. And if that wasn’t fascinating enough, the black marks on the rabids’ skins were fading away in clouds of burnt ash.

The last orderly collapsed and the flames died down. By this time, Dean was hardly surprised when he hoisted himself up and Michael emerged from the pregnant lady privacy curtains.

“Dude, what is it with you and the fireworks?”

Michael examined his hand. “A necessity at times,” he murmured. Then, his features softened. “It's good to see you, Dean.”

"Wish I could say the same, pal." Dean gestured sardonically. "What are you doing here?”

In lieu of an answer, Michael held up an old jar that looked like it came from the Stone Age and looked expectant. “It’s holy oil," he explained. "A fire created from it will cleanse Amara’s influence from her victims. Also, would you believe I came to apologize?”

Dean took the jar cautiously. "I believe that more than I believe you weren't just showing off with that ring of fire."

After a telling moment of speechlessness, Michael cleared his throat. “It happened to come to my attention that I haven’t been fair to you." he stated. "And I went about this...” he gestured between them. “...all wrong.”

“You think?” 

“Yes,” Michael’s voice was low as he looked out at rows of beds and baby posters. “You aren’t incomplete, Dean, but you are made for me. Vessel, or not, I need you in this fight.”

Dean fought to keep the tremor out of his voice; a bit difficult, given the flood of relief in his veins. “Oh, now you trust me not to choose Amara as my co-pilot?”

“I trust you to choose to keep Creation alive,” said Michael. “I suspect that’s the end goal of the grand plan, anyway.”

“Really?” Dean stared back thoughtfully. “You gonna make me come back to Heaven?”

“Only if you wish,” Michael allowed. “The weapon is still there in our vault, but I'm sure you know a weapon is nothing without a capable hand to wield it. You can always return when you're ready.”

“It's fine,” Dean shrugged. “Think I need a break from hanging with you while being dead in some guy’s apartment.” He thought for a moment. “You taking back your grand confession too?”

“No, I meant what I said,” Michael replied deliberately. “We’re saving the world from oblivion, Dean. I think we can--and I want to--make other things work between us.”

“Awesome!” the hunter grinned widely. “Cause I still kinda don’t _not_ think about us.”

“And double negatives have always been a solid basis for a working relationship,” Michael added agreeably. 

Dean laughed. “Ok, but first...” he set the oil jar down, and wrapped his arms around the archangel in a tight hug. It lasted for two breaths and countless heartbeats before he patted Michael's back and withdrew. “Good to see you too, Michael.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you :)


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